


A Shifting Cadence

by human_dreamer_etcetera



Series: Those Binary Stars [5]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Married Life, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Parenthood, Pregnancy, this is going to be very much a tag-as-you-go adventure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27272311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/human_dreamer_etcetera/pseuds/human_dreamer_etcetera
Summary: "That's what it's about, isn't it? Having someone to come home to?"From two to five, and the adventures along the way.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Joan Thursday
Series: Those Binary Stars [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822189
Comments: 19
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

It’s only early December, and already it looks like the North Pole is gaining incontestable ground in the yearly invasion of Oxford. Burridge’s is swallowed up by red and gold and tinsel everywhere, and every display case is stuffed to the gills with fake snow. 

Joan wanders the shelves in a daze. She’s not feeling particularly Christmassy yet, though she’s already crossed most of the family off the list, more out of thriftiness - preseason sales and all - than holiday spirit. She’s been waiting for weeks for Morse’s input on what to get for Joyce, which she suspects is because Morse can only think of one thing his sister would like and can’t decide whether it’s a better choice for Christmas or her upcoming wedding. 

As if on autopilot, Joan notices her feet carrying her toward the baby clothes, even though she’s already bought a gift for Sam and Anke and little Albert. She lets the rainbow of vests and miniaturized outfits trickle over one hand, and feels a lump form in her throat at the tiny red Christmas dress on proud display. Since when is she sentimental enough to be affected by something like that? But then, that’s one of the symptoms, isn’t it? Being more emotional in general, crying at the drop of a hat? She wipes the back of her hand almost angrily against wet eyes. 

Joan Morse does not like feeling out of control. Her head has been spinning ever since she left the doctor’s office, and she still isn’t sure what to think. She’s thrilled and scared and curious and frightfully uncertain all at once. 

She thinks of pinched eyebrows and a thunderous expression, seeing her walk in late after covering a shift. 

She thinks of blue eyes crinkling right after they open in the morning, seeing her face inches away.

She thinks of long nights waiting for a word of absolution, of earning affection with perfection. 

She thinks of quiet evenings spent in companionable silence, of affirmations of adoration murmured in her ear.

She thinks of hands shoved roughly against her shoulders and the bite of stairs against her back, of a shouted, “Get lost!” 

She thinks of a hand clasped loosely around hers in a crowded supermarket, with the claim, “So I don’t lose you.”

When she told Ray she was pregnant, he’d frozen, then spat, “I told you I didn’t want any more.” As though it was her fault, as though she’d chosen this, to make his life more difficult, as though he had no part in this turn of events. 

There’s a part of her, of course, that’s still so afraid. That she can’t be sure how Morse will respond to the same news. But it’s hard to imagine it being anything like the last time, with Ray. She’d be hard pressed to find two people less alike.

And while her fear strives for dominance, it’s rather drowned out by the mental image of a small, freckled child with a head full of swooping curls…

A smile tugs at Joan’s mouth and she presses one hand gently to her abdomen, pictures the swell to come. She wants this, she realizes, more than she ever thought she would, before it was a reality. To bring a whole new person into the world, someone who’s part her and part the person she loves most in the world…Whatever this feeling is, she’s so overwhelmed with all of it that she feels as though she can’t contain it. She absolutely has to share this with Morse. But how to tell him?

**

She manages to keep her news to herself for a little while longer, though it’s difficult. Part of her wants nothing more than to blurt it out, while the other part is determined to make the telling something special. And with everything bouncing around in her head, it’s not as though it’s much of a stretch to drift off into contemplation. Between season and circumstance, she’s reminded of nativity plays she attended as a child, and thinks she’s starting to understand that bit about the Virgin Mary, quiet on the sidelines as the shepherds told the world about her baby boy, keeping her thoughts to herself and “pondering these things in her heart.” Anyway, if she’s a little quieter than usual, Morse knows better than to call her on it before she’s ready to share what’s on her mind.

“I picked up something for you while I was out,” Joan says that evening, as they’re dressing for bed, as if as an afterthought. 

Morse is clad in pajama bottoms but with only his top two shirt buttons undone so far, loosened tie still hanging around his neck. It’s quite a look, and Joan has to suppress a giggle. He pauses and quirks an eyebrow. “Isn’t it a little early for presents?”

Joan shrugs. “For Christmas, maybe. Not for your birthday.” She settles the wrapped package in his hands and tries not to fiddle with her hands or do anything else to let on her nervousness. Between the two of them, usually it’s Morse who can’t stay still; it’s a strange feeling, this reversal.

A look of confusion settles on Morse’s face. “Since when do you get me a birthday gift?” Which is, technically, a fair point - usually they prefer to celebrate Morse’s birthday in other ways, like a concert or a quiet night at home together. Morse hasn’t really made much of his birthday ever since his mother died, and Joan finds it’s easier to get him to agree to recognize it if they treat it more as an opportunity to spend time together. 

Frustrated, Joan rolls her eyes and says, “Fine, it’s not a birthday present either. I just saw something and thought of you. Could you hurry up and open it, _please_?” Well, there goes the feigned casualness she was going for, but her impatience is burning her up inside and she just needs him to know _now_.

Morse shrugs and starts unwrapping, oh so painfully slowly. Joan barely restrains herself from bouncing on her toes, or ripping the small package from his hands and tearing it open herself.

When he sees what’s inside, his confusion initially deepens, and then it clicks. His eyes widen and he takes a short, sharp breath. He cradles the unreasonably teeny baby shoes in one palm and stares at them like a source of magic. Joan almost can’t bear to watch anymore as he raises shining round eyes to her - blue, so impossibly blue as ever - and asks, softly, “Is this… is this real? Are you sure?”

“Unless the doctor bought a degree in some shady back alley. I suppose it’s possible,” Joan muses. “Though I do have to wonder what such a thing would cost, or how—”

Morse lets out a hiccup-y laugh and enfolds her in the tightest hug of her life, and somehow they can’t stop laughing and crying and circling right back ‘round to laughter, all in the same breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further proof to myself, I suppose, that Harvest and Apollo continue to shape so much of my idea of this ship... This is, of course, the "Those Binary Stars: Parenthood Edition" fic I've been mentioning on Tumblr for quite some time. I'm kind of breaking my own unwritten rule in posting this when I'm not especially "grounded" in this fic yet; but on the other hand, I was disciplined and started working on the beginning first, which is, whaaaatttt, you mean I am capable of writing somewhat in order?! I've got a precariously wobbling pile of WIPs at the moment - most of which are a bit more, shall we say, involved as far as writing projects go - but this one keeps sneaking its way to the top anyway, so maybe I'll actually manage a semi reasonable update schedule. We shall see!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I offer you a bit of Christmas fluff (of sorts) in these trying times?

It’s clear as day, even before Joan clasps Morse’s hand tightly when they’ve finished eating and announces, “We've got news.” Win knows from the moment they walk in the door, though of course she doesn’t say anything, to them or Fred, or give any indication that she’s guessed - that’s for the happy couple to announce. It’s obvious, if not from the simply intuitive way a mother knows her daughter, then from the way Morse looks at Joan as though she’s relit the stars, the way he can’t seem to stop touching her, subtly holding on to her, as though fearful she might break - a hand cradled against the small of her back as they cross the threshold, cupped around her elbow as they walk through the house, resting with fingers splayed against her thigh throughout dinner. And there again, it’s apparent in the small, softly glowing smile that seems permanently affixed to Joan’s face. 

How easy it is to drift back into her own memories, from Joan’s earliest days, when Win first learned of her existence. Her abiding recollection of that period remains an intense loneliness. Her husband was back on the front by then, and she was still at home, feeling infuriatingly like a little girl playing house. She was a wife now, and yet her parents treated her like they always had, like nothing had changed, but something had fundamentally changed and there were days she wanted to scream with the frustration of her internal and external experiences so at odds.

And then came the realization that there was going to be a baby, and everything, all the unrelenting sameness and wishing for “real life” to start, came to a screeching halt. Win stared uncomprehendingly at the doctor at first, and then informed him, very politely, that he must be mistaken. She went home and told herself that this simply could not be happening, not without Fred by her side. They were meant to have the white picket fence and the 2.5 children after the war was all wrapped up and he was home for good. All told, if you counted the time that really mattered, their time together, she’d had less than a month yet as Mrs Thursday; how on earth was she meant to be somebody’s mother now, too? 

Writing that letter had felt like an impossibility. She can’t remember anymore what Fred’s response was exactly, but she does recall uncharacteristic tenderness that reassured her that whatever came their way, they would be tackling it together, somehow. 

From the moment Joan made her entrance into the world, pink and squalling and very much on her own schedule, it was apparent that she was determined to do things her own way. She wasn’t an easy baby, and even once Fred was home, raising an incredibly _opinionated_ infant and adjusting to married life with a man as marred as any by the impact of life on the front - all under the same roof as the parents she felt she ought to have outgrown obeying and appeasing by now - felt like the devil’s game as often as not. They moved just down the street when they learned Sam was on the way, and as dingy as the new flat was, it meant new rules, a freedom Win could scarce imagine for the last couple years of her life. All of a sudden, she spent her days chasing after an energetic toddler and cradling a sweet newborn and trying desperately to keep a spotless home for a husband struggling to work his way up the ranks in the nick, and she wondered if she would ever feel qualified for the role she’d seemingly landed in quite by accident.

The East End was a place of shadows, even - or perhaps especially - then. It was like the dust still hadn’t fallen all the way to the ground in some neighborhoods, like the rubble was still rearranging itself, the echoes of bomb blasts still reverberating. Win had known it wasn’t any place to raise a child, certainly not a cheerful and headstrong trouble magnet like their Joan - yet somehow she hadn’t really felt the fear for Fred’s life until the night he came home and sank his head onto their kitchen table and openly wept for one of the first times in their years of marriage, wailing the name “Mickey Carter” when she finally pulled it from him like it was the last remnant of some charm he’d trusted to see him through. Win remembers the bone-deep chill that had settled over her irrevocably that night as she realized their lives were all at the mercy of the London gangs for as long as Fred Thursday dared to stand in their way.

It was the first time she’d told him, bitter and wretched, that it was selfish to be a hero when the homefront needed protecting, too.

The day they moved away, Joan had balled up her fists and shouted that they couldn’t make her leave, she had friends here, she was going to stay even if they tried to drag her bodily all the way to Oxford. Win had looked to Fred and expected to see steam coming out his ears, but to her surprise, he was barely holding back a chuckle. “She could go toe to toe with any commanding officer, our little spitfire,” he’d said fondly to Win, before marching over with exaggeratedly heavy steps and sternly ordering their daughter to quit her shouting and get in the bloody car. In the years to come, Joan certainly gave them both a run for their money more times than either could count, and Win hissed more than once that her own mother would’ve boxed her ‘round the ears without a second thought had she even thought about talking back like that; but as parents do, she comforted herself with the reassurance that a strong-willed child makes a fine leader as an adult, once she learns to harness her powers for good. 

And so she has, their Joan. She hasn’t had an easy go of it, poor lamb - and heaven knows she’s given them enough to worry over along the way - but Win can only say how proud she is of the young woman her daughter has become. She’s fiercely grateful, too, in looking back on her own experience, that Joan won’t be so alone in these early days. It’s a roundabout way they’ve gotten here, but Morse still looks at Joan the same way he did in those first years hanging awkwardly around their front hall, waiting to pick up his guv’nor: his eyes still shine with adoration and nothing could pull his attention away. Joan won’t have to wait and worry over whether her husband will love their child; it’s readily apparent that he does already.

From the other room, Win hears Sam’s ringing laugh, followed by a murmured reprimand from Anke. Teasing his sister, then, most likely; having grown up an only child in a much more reserved family, and still picking up some nuances of English, Anke is still uncertain as to when a line has been crossed, and worries endlessly over Sam and Joan’s easily tossed barbs. Win edges closer to pick up the thread of the conversation:

“It made it easier that you were here for Christmas,” Joan is saying. “I told Morse I wasn’t paying for a long-distance call just to tell you I’m pregnant when it would be perfectly obvious by the next time I saw you.”

“Come on, Joanie, that’s playing a dangerous game and you know it! What if I just assumed you’d gotten fat?”

“Sam!”

“What?”

Poor, sweet Anke, not understanding that her attempts at keeping the peace are unlikely to endear her to her sister-in-law: “I just don’t think—”

“No, no, you’re right. She’d waddle in the door, looking like she stole a gumball machine, and…”

Win shakes her head and sighs. They’re always like this, her two, and at this rate, she suspects they always will be. Well, it’s an improvement over the pulled hair and bloody noses of their younger years, she supposes, although they always did manage to concoct some excuse by the time she popped her head in to check on them. Their fights were brutal, but usually short-lived, blowing over as quickly as they devised some new cooperative mischief to occupy their time instead.

Win looks into the sitting room to see if Fred is still reading to Albert, and finds the two dead to the world, Fred with his head tipped back and snoring, Albert with the book clutched tight in his chubby fist, curled against Grandpa’s chest. Her heart warms at the sight, doubly so when she considers that it’s good Fred has gotten his practice in now, seeing as they’ll be called upon for grandparent duties much more often with Joan and Morse living so much closer than Sam and Anke.

**

By the time they get home that night, Joan is certain she could sleep for a week. Surely pregnancy exacerbates the usual holiday exhaustion, right? Well, that and Christmas is much more active with her nephew tearing into everything and clamoring for everyone’s attention at all times. He’s a miniature Sam, alright, even if he does look more like a strange (and adorable) mix of Anke and Mum.

She wants nothing more than to slide into bed and prepare herself to do as much of absolutely nothing as possible tomorrow, but Morse hasn’t even made it up the stairs yet, which seems odd. She pads quietly downstairs and finds him sitting on the couch, staring at an old photograph. She settles next to him, and rests her head on his shoulder.

“That’s you and your mum, isn’t it?” she asks, gently. Morse is still reticent when it comes to talking about his mother, in a way that comes from a deep and formative hurt. Still, many of his memories with her are happy ones, Joan knows, including whenever this picture was taken: in it, both mother and son hold themselves with an easy peace. After Cyril left, then, Joan guesses, and before Constance got sick.

“I was just wondering… what she’d have thought,” Morse says, slowly, like he’s only just now making sense of his own thoughts. “What it would have been like to tell her. If she’d have been as happy as Mrs - as Win was tonight.” Every once in a while, he still slips into calling her Mrs Thursday, even after all these years. He’d never be the type to call them Mum and Dad, of course, and besides, it would just feel unbearably weird, with the mixed-up angles of father-in-law and boss.

It must have felt a little like loss, sitting there tonight and not having either of his own parents still alive to tell. Not that Joan has any particular softness in her heart set aside where Cyril Morse is concerned, not with what she knows of the man. She’s all too aware of the ways Morse’s father’s detachment and downright toxicity has bled into his pervasive misgivings over his own worth and capacity as a parent. But even from the secondhand stories she’s heard about Constance, she finds herself wishing very much that they could have shared the news with her together, somehow, if things had gone differently.

Joan casts about for a ready response and comes up pitifully short. “Did you want to tell Gwen?” she asks, a little uncertainly. There’s no love lost there, of course, but she’s the only living parent - or near as - that Morse has left.

He responds, predictably enough, with a derisive snort. “Contrary to popular belief, there are some kinds of pain I prefer to avoid.”

A beat. “Did you already tell Joyce?”

Morse’s face falls. “Not yet. Once she knows, Gwen will - she’ll probably be listening at her shoulder, just waiting for some news of my latest failing. She’s greedy for any shred of gossip. And I just don’t… I don’t want her to have any part of this,” he admits. “Joycie will be over the moon, of course I want to tell her, but Gwen… She poisons everything she touches,” he sighs. 

Joan reaches down to pick up Morse’s hand and traces thoughtfully over the lines of his palm. She has no answer for Gwen’s unpleasantness. Joan’s managed to make it this far into their marriage without the woman taking up undue space in their shared lives, and she isn’t eager to change that pattern. Really, though, what’s got Morse in knots tonight isn’t Gwen at all, is it? So she loops their conversation back to where they began, hoping she’s meeting the right need. “I wish I could have met your mother,” she says, completely genuine. “How do you think she would have reacted?”

Seemingly, she made the right call. Morse’s mouth lifts in a small smile as he replies, “She’d have been over the moon, I expect. Probably cried. I don’t—” there’s that pinch between the eyes again, though fleetingly, before it passes — “I don’t remember much, anymore… it’s been so long… but I do remember how, the whole day after good news, I’d hear her singing all through the flat. Nothing in particular, just - that’s how happiness manifested for her, as music. Hymns, sometimes, or just whatever was on the radio lately.”

“So that’s where it started, for you,” Joan observes with a smile, thinking of how music remains Morse’s comfort even when words or reason fail.

“Mm,” he agrees. He’s quiet for a moment, eyes closed, remembering, and Joan squeezes his hand and snuggles deeper into his side. “She’d have loved you, you know. I wish she could have met you.”

“Maybe we could name the baby after her. You know, if it’s a girl.”

Morse wrinkles his nose. “Constance? It’s better than Endeavour, but that’s hardly a ringing endorsement. Come on, could you really look at a being all of seven pounds and minutes old and saddle her with that for the rest of her life?”

That earns a giggle. “All right, all right. Maybe a middle name, then.”

Morse turns to look at her, gratitude flickering warmly in his eyes. It looks like he wants to say something, but he thinks better of it, or can’t find the words, and instead settles for curving one hand around her cheek and pulling her in for a soft kiss. 

Really, Joan can’t imagine a better Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have ~* plans *~ for the rest of this fic, but the writing has been a little slow. If you have anything you'd really love to see that you think would fit in this series, feel free to leave in a comment, or hit me up on Tumblr if you'd rather. Of course I can't make any promises about incorporating any prompts, but if you and the muse are in agreement about a fun idea, I will try!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, my friends! I am going into 2021 armed with hope in one hand and acceptance in the other. I've also been reading, like, a ton, which is awesome, but means I have not been focusing so much on writing. It ebbs and flows, and may or may not shift over time - I'm making an effort to really actively engage with and enjoy stuff right now, so when inspiration strikes, I'll try to set aside time to work on it more! Anyway, I've been reworking this chapter for what feels like forever, and it ended up being something rather different than planned - it was originally much heavier on the angst, which felt unnecessary, so I tweaked it a lot, but now I'm not sure I really got exactly what I wanted out of it. Well, the time comes at some point that you've just stared at your own words for long enough that they're blending together, so I am releasing this chapter into the wild and hoping I can get it together for the next one in a semi-reasonable timeline. I hope you're all doing well and making meaning in your circumstances, whatever that may look like, as we head into another trip around the sun!

No matter how hard she works at mastering her nerves during the day, the uncertainty tends to creep in at night, when her defenses are down.

She wakes one night with a sharply inhaled breath, the kind that tells of a scream lost to sleep, and one foot primed for a thrashing kick. Her dreams have only gotten more vivid these past few months, and her racing heart and rising nausea are testament to the fading nightmare: the sudden weightlessness of falling immediately replaced with thuds against stairs, promising bruises. The haze of sleep isn’t enough to wear down the sharpness of a memory called up across the years, the howling emptiness that lingered long past the physical pain. Without waiting for full consciousness, she slips out of bed, as quietly as possible to avoid disturbing her husband - she’s put them both through enough sleepless nights - and pads to the bathroom. 

There was a time, not too long ago, that she was far more acquainted with the teal tile than she’d ever cared to be, though mercifully that’s mostly passed as she’s crossed into her second trimester. It’s not something she was eager to revisit, though as the minutes pass and her mind starts catching up to her body in wakefulness, she feels her heart rate slow. Panic fades to sorrow, and she hugs her arms tightly around her knees and grants herself a few moments of weakness, the chance to cry for something she’s never quite known how to grieve.

When she slides back into bed, Morse makes a small noise of confusion, but his eyes don’t blink open. Joan stays curled in a tight ball for several minutes, trying to focus on her breathing. After a while, she feels Morse move closer, then his hand rubbing gently up and down her arm. The twitch of a smile ghosts at her lips, and her muscles slowly start to unclench. By the time she’s unwound and spooned up against him, that same hand comes to rest over her belly, seemingly without thought, as his eyes are still closed and she’s pretty sure he’s still mostly asleep. New tears prick at her eyes, albeit of a different sort.

 _You’re so safe and so loved,_ she thinks at the baby, who is, she imagines, currently flipping in cheerful somersaults and wondering why Mummy is up and moving when it’s supposed to be laying-still time. _I’d do anything for you, and so would your daddy._

She twists a bit, to look back at her husband, whose russet curls have flopped over closed eyes, and determinedly amends her previous statement: We _are safe._

It’s not long after that that exhaustion finally wins out, and sleep takes her under once again.

**

Morse wakes first the following morning, and little wonder; even still sleeping, the shadows under Joan’s eyes are obvious. He’s careful not to disturb her when he gets up, and sets a plate of toast and some fruit on the kitchen table so she won’t have to worry about making breakfast when she’s running late. When he hears the second alarm goes off, he makes his way back upstairs, ready to shake her awake if she’s managed to sleep through this one too. He needn’t have worried; she’s rummaging through a pile of skirts, frowning at each before she sets it aside; she’s starting to outgrow some of her clothes, though she hasn’t quite accepted the impending reality of baggy maternity dresses.

“Tired?” he asks. _Of course she’s tired,_ he immediately chides himself, _she’s growing a whole new person!_ Well, morning Morse has never been his best self, but she knew that when she married him.

Joan sighs. “You get used to it.”

Morse scrubs up the hair at the nape of his neck, undoing all the effort he just put into forcing it to lie flat. “Thought I heard you get up last night. Were you, er, sick again? I thought that had mostly passed by now.”

She turns away, ostensibly to look for matching jewelry, but it’s obvious she doesn’t want to look him in the eye. “Yeah. It wasn’t…” A sharp breath, inhaled through the nose. “Bad dream.”

He catches the way her eyes flick down to her stomach, then to the side, and the way she pulls her lip between her teeth, almost guiltily. He has a strong suspicion he understands more than she thinks he does, but he isn’t sure how far to push. They’ve talked about it, of course; before this happened, even before they were married, she’d confessed she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to get pregnant again at all, no matter what the doctor had said. Flickers of worry have persisted, albeit intermittent - but Joan’s subconscious is not always kind to her, and it’s not hard to imagine the places a bad dream might have taken her.

“You’re so good to me,” she blurts out eventually. “So gentle, and - and happy,” her breath catches, “about this, and the other one never had that. They deserved it, every bit as much as this one does, but all that meant to him was an inconvenience, an excuse for violence… And I couldn’t keep us safe, I couldn’t, and what if I can’t do right by this one either?”

Tears are slipping down her face now, and Morse feels his heart breaking. At the same time, he has to fight to keep his hands from forming fists as he imagines Ray’s reaction to Joan’s confession all those years ago. With every tenderness he shows toward their child, he realizes, surely Joan must think of another time, another place, bitter shouts instead of gentle whispers. Is it any wonder she feels out of her depth now, lingering guilt mingling with worry over her capacity as a mother?

“Listen,” he says softly, reaching out to brush his thumbs under her eyes to wipe them away, then catches one shining droplet just as it rolls off the tip of her nose and is rewarded with a soggy sort of half-laugh. “It wasn’t your fault. You did the best you knew how to do. And if I—” He stops himself before placing the blame on his own shoulders. He still wishes he could have saved her then; but what she needs isn’t his self-recrimination, and this isn’t about his own feelings of guilt now anyway. Instead, he reaches out to squeeze both her trembling hands in his. “If I could show you for just one minute what you look like to the rest of the world - to me - you could never doubt your own strength. How capable you are, in every new endeavour you take on - no matter how impossible.”

He pauses until Joan’s snort reveals that the self-deprecating joke has sunk in. Dads are supposed to be particularly prone to such awful puns, aren’t they? Might as well get his practice in now.

“You’re not alone,” he murmurs, releasing one hand so he can brush her hair back from her face, tuck it behind her ear. “Not in this; not ever.”

Joan lets out a sob and throws her arms around him. He’s alarmed at first, before he realizes it’s like releasing a pressure valve - she’s finally gotten what she needed, and is letting out all the fear she’s kept trapped in a lonely, anxious bubble till now. As Morse rubs what he hopes are soothing circles against her back, she mumbles something that sounds awfully like “I love you” into his dampening sleeve. 

**

Joan frowns at the baggy shirt in her hand, then sighs. It’s obvious Mum was trying to find something reasonably stylish; this one’s plastered all over with loud purple flowers. It’s an improvement over most of what she’s seen at Burridge’s - rows of equally shapeless and desaturated sacks - but not by much. Really, whose idea was it to make maternity clothing so heinously ugly? Sure, it’s an outfit you’ll only wear for a few months, but when you already feel like a gelatinous mass vaguely gathered in the shape of a person, do you really need your clothes to make you look like even more of a generic blob? Just what she needs after a disheartening day of work, really.

With another sigh, Joan slides the billowing purple-patterned top over her head, wriggles her way into loose trousers fitted with a stretchy waistband, and faces her reflection with a grimace. If her weight gain continues at its current pace, it really might not be long before she’s wearing such things.

Honestly, it’s not as bad as she expected. The cloth still billows away from her body in odd spots, but the overall shape of the outfit isn’t atrocious. Curious, Joan rolls the waistband down and lifts the shirt slightly, and peers closely at her belly in the mirror, squinting to see if she can spot much of a change yet. Supposedly lots of women just sort of “pop” overnight, right? Not much to see yet - there is a tiny bump to advertise Baby Morse’s presence, but only if you know what you’re looking for. 

There’s a soft knock at the door, and then Win enters. “Any luck yet?”

Joan startles out of her reverie. “I - yeah, maybe. The flowers are nice.”

“I haven’t a clue why they make such horrid sacks,” Win frets, and Joan quirks a smile at hearing her own thoughts echoed in her mother’s mouth. “When I had you, of course, it was all dresses like tents, but they’ve got better fabrics now, and it’s not as though you’re trying to hide it, are you? Not that we succeeded in that either, I’m sure, just looked like we’d gobbled too many cakes while our husbands were off at war…”

Joan grins. “Morse isn’t even gone and I feel like I could eat a dozen cakes a day!”

“And you’d deserve it, too! It isn’t an easy thing, lending your body to the act of creation for nine straight months.”

It’s strange, sharing this new thing with her mother, some timeless experience of generations of women which she finally understands. “Mum,” she asks, “what was it like, being pregnant with me?”

Win’s smile fades a little, tinged with bittersweet. “Oh, Joanie. I loved you from the start, but it wasn’t easy. With Sam, it was easier to celebrate, but with you… Well, you know the story. Dad was still off at the front for most of it, and as much as I appreciated everything Grandma and Granddad did for me, trying to think of myself as a wife and a mother at the same time as being their daughter, under their roof…”

Joan cringes, trying to imagine her situation now if she still lived with her parents. There’s at least one rather important aspect of her life with Morse that would be nigh impossible; although with Dad away, it wouldn’t have mattered to Mum so much— Ugh, that’s a thought she’d rather not finish, actually, thank you very much.

“I was so scared what Dad would think, at first. Obviously we weren’t expecting to - well. It wasn’t the order of events we had imagined, that’s all. But, Joanie, I’ve never seen a man so enchanted with fatherhood, right from the start. From the first time he held you, you had him wrapped utterly around your little finger. Both of us, really. Sometimes I look back and think, my goodness, we were so young… We didn’t have any idea what we were doing! But the truth is, Joan, no parent ever does. It’s normal to worry. Oh, the nightmares I had at first!” She shakes her head. “It isn’t so overwhelming forever, though. You and Morse will figure it out, same as we did. And anytime you need us, you know we’re only a call away.”

Joan’s throat feels tight. It’s much the same message as she received from her other half this morning, and with repetition - not to mention a widening support net - she thinks maybe she’s starting to believe it. “Thank you,” she says, and it comes out barely above a whisper. “For understanding, and knowing what I need to hear, even before I do.”

Her mother wraps her arms around her tightly. “Well, love, maybe part of it’s just what I wish someone had told me. And I do mean it, about being here if you have questions or need a break or even just an ear to listen.”

Joan smiles. “Might not want to leave that offer too open-ended, or we’ll be dropping the baby off here every time it’s too fussy to sleep!”

After that, the conversation veers to lighter topics, and they fit in some tea and over-the-top dramatic telly before Dad gets home. Joan smiles into his fierce bear hug and sticks around just long enough to catch up on his stories and commiserate at how little any of them have heard from Sam recently before she’s yawning, even though it’s scarcely time for dinner yet. Mum presses containers packed with last night’s leftovers into her arms, because of course she won’t take no for an answer, and Joan winks at Dad when he grumbles about the shepherd’s pie he was looking forward to. “Haven’t you heard, I’m too busy being pregnant to cook,” she teases, and then starts to wonder if she could convince Morse of the same. Arms laden with tonight’s dinner and bundles of clothes, she thinks maybe, just maybe, she’s ready for all the changes to come. At the very least, she’s got a team in her corner prepared to step in whenever she needs them.


End file.
